


we are full of stories to be told

by Radiolaria



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: the Time of the Doctor, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, Not Beta Read, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s part of the character. Suddenly, a mysterious stranger falls from the sky with only time and a sonic. No ship. And naturally a new companion every so often."</p><p>Spoilers for the Christmas special, The Time of the Doctor</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are full of stories to be told

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Laughter Lines by Bastille
> 
> For Mr. and Mrs. L.

_I’d never made it here alive without River Song._

 

The crack was burning slowly, lending a soft fire-like shimmer to the room, save for the round window that retained her lunar coldness, flickering with shadows passing outside. The echoes of voices long lost, his people, would lull him to sleep.

But not tonight. His carving tool was proficiently digging the tender wood when the door opened, letting in a gush of fresh air and perfumed vapours, like marine air and salty water flowing in. Footsteps plopped down the stairs, and gingerly. Bright mood, frosting and custard, he smelt.

“Tell me”, he loudly wondered, carving a chunk of wood out with a flounce. The chips eddied up and down, spiralling, born by cold and warm air meeting and mingling. “How did you manage to pull this one? Tasha was supposed to strengthen the shield. I might want to make a story out of it for the children some time.”

The rustle and smell came close, brushing his right ear, and stilled just behind him. On the corner of his eyes, a scarf was unwound, gloved hands folding it efficiently and sending it on the nearest chair. Perfect landing.

He smiled.

“Would you? Won’t they ask why your stories regarding River Song frequently involve a town uncannily similar to their home?”

The little figure in his hand fell inside his palm, so cold there. His fingers curled around it, trying to transfer a little of his warmth.

“I said  _this_  one, Doctor Song.” He tipped his head up, against the back of the chair and a riotous curtain of curls blocked his view, while soft lips stole a kiss on his lips. Full, strong, like a hold.  “Breaking in is too easy for you,” he chided her, her face lingering above his. He scrunched his nose at the upside-down sight and she narrowed her eyes. “I want to tell them of something a little harder to accomplish.”

Retreating, she sat on the nearest bench, and he turned his chair to face her at last. She was wrapped in heavy furs and a dark blue coat, her hair an array of wide and undefined curls. Snowflakes caught everywhere. Her hair looked white. Cheeks and chin pink with cold.

She could be hundreds of year old.

He leaned against the arm of the chair and put carefully on a table the minute wooden figure he was working on. His eyes climbed up her body, while she was busy dropping the layers of clothes, getting comfortable. Still, her gaze was gauging him, fondly, as if to check if none of his parts had fallen since their last encounter.

“Like the coat,” he remarked, gesturing and pointing. Isolating. Distinguishing. When she was coming whole and undamaged.

She rolled her eyes without a grin, propped herself up and in the same motion jumped in his lap, none too gently. The chair creaked loudly and swayed backwards; he groaned under her added weight. Balanced recovered, she was sitting perfectly still, saddling him hands on her thighs, oddly sphinx-like, and looking straight at him.

“Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands in defeat, letting them naturally slide down to her shoulders, her side, and settling in the dip of her waist. His eyes met her young ones, a glimpse of mischief shared. “I  _am fond_ of the rest.”

She tugged at the lapels of his furry coat and bared teeth, menacing.

“You  _married_  the rest.”

He gaped and hushed her, a hand on her mouth.

“They are not supposed to know…”

She shook her head to rid of the hand, which found shelter in the warmth of her nape.

“You enjoy letting them believe you lead a secret life,” she gloated, her fingers tickling up to his shoulders and he applied pressure at the base of her neck to calm her.

“It’s part of the character. Suddenly, a mysterious stranger falls from the sky with only time and a sonic. No ship. And naturally a new companion every so often. Even if only to explore the mayor’s cellar under fake pretences.”

She laughed quietly.

“Well, the poor Sontaran soldiers did hide in wine barrels. And you will not be so pleased with yourself when you realise I did not always took the appearance of a young, pretty boy or girl.”

“I have no qualms with pretty, old thing.” He gazed at her fondly. “Well, you certainly have none.”

She took his chin and flicked it in mock anger. Her hands then slowly climbed the side of his face taking in the creases and dips there. He beheld her with great calm, conscious of what strength was required for her not to recoil, seeing him this old, this aged. He did not feel damaged. It was something she could not fix and it brazenly smoothed her out. Her throat constricted, briefly, and she cautiously took him in her embrace. Or he took her.

They would regularly fell back to such wordless interlocking, like limbs of an articulated toy under the simple law of gravity.

She would always fall the same way. And he would always get slower at this.

He held tight. Eyes wide open. So he could have her in his arms, with all the tales of his life still displayed before him. Eagerness to hold took to him in his old age.

He would never see them different, Amy, Clara, Vastra. And River would never change.  She would always remain the stupendous, fiery blonde portrayed in his little friends’ work. Shallow attempt at holding to someone long gone. Stories.

Amy did not get him to come back, she did not even still him. With miles of sheets and boxes of dolls. And her love.

He could not get River to change anymore.

“You look much older than last time,” she whispered.

He breathed in her scent before answering.

“Well, you certainly made me wait for this visit.” His breath was smothered in curls and that special River blend of stars and dust.

She sat up, shifted to alleviate her weight on him and pushed him slightly so that they could both barely fit into the chair. It was not so comfortable and he expected the chair to give up under them at any moment; he had her close after years of absence.

“You make for a delicious Merlin though.” Laughter lines on the corner of her eyes she could never completely take down. And now, -humans have a soft spot for these concepts- he was growing old, without her. “Those eyes. Can I be your Vivian?”

_And will stay trap forever, without him._

He closed his eyes, stiffening, consciously pulling away, despite their proximity.

“It’s not funny,” he stated.

She chortled, peering at his move, but choosing not to act upon it. The little time they had would not be spent in confrontations.

“Yes, it is.” She combed back his greying hair. ”Will you let them grow long at some point? Not too long, just like the rude, grumpy you. You could be Gandalf without a beard. I heard you organised fireworks for the festival.”

“Stop it. You were there. I saw you dancing in the crowd. With holographic clothes.” She shot him a naughty look and he was relieved the change of subject was fully endorsed. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Doctor Song.” They stayed still, feeling each other rather than seeing, relishing in the lack of sound all around. They felt wrapped in each other’s presence, as if isolated. She fished her diary out of a pocket and he took hold of it. She let him, studying his hands stroking the worn surface. “What are you up to these days?”

Her eyebrows arched extravagantly and she sighed mysteriously.

“Working on a pet project of mine. Very hush, hush.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Dismantling the Silence, again?”

The diary found its way back to her hands and she quickly leafed through some pages, shielding it from his eyes, before closing it and letting it rest in her lap. Close to his hand, drawing on her thigh, aimlessly.

“Well, somebody has to take care of it,” she scoffed. Her face was seized with an aborted attempt at amusement, curiosity even. “Met really interesting people in the process, a most fascinating woman. Mentioned you.” She turned her head to him and declared, challenging: “I’m thinking about becoming a Professor at last, with what I unearthed about you in here… ”

He relinquished her trouser and opened a hand in the air to stop her.

“Spoilers,” he stressed. “Nostradamus dear, that’s one secret I do not want to learn from you.”

Her mouth fell gaping, falsely offended.

“ _That_  is not clever.” She shook her curls and he noted with a hint of nostalgia the paleness had been replaced with light-catching droplets. “Archaeology and astrology are nothing like one another.”

“Except that one time in France,” he teased.

Her eyes were sparkled, half-shut, as if she had just bitten a peculiarly sweet fruit.

She looked peculiarly sweet herself. But he could not quite tell her that.

“Well, looking forward to it.” She beamed.

He sighed, feeling too young in his lack of remorse, and alone. He missed his ship. But most of all, he ached not to feel that restless urge toward infinity. To run and away. To look forward to.

Odd. And so close to Gallifrey.

He had accepted his fate here. Because it did not mean dying on the battlefield, yet surrounded with people who trusted and loved him, with toys to fiddle with and lives to save, with children and night. He would end on a planet whose sky resembled the darkness of space most. He still had the sun. A little less each day it seemed to him.

But he could not miss the stars on Trenzalore.

“We always end up boxed, you know.” She gently rose to her feet, leaving him bruising in the legs, where they had been pressed against the chair. She rubbed her hips and they nearly burst out of laughter as one, understanding how uncomfortable they both had sat all along. None of them was exactly one hundred year old anymore. His head fell back to the chair and he watched her from under his half-closed lids, sobered. “Somewhere. Somewhen.”

Her arms folded on her chest and her gaze jumped from wall to wall, scurrying, before going back to him.

“If you are asking me to do what I think you are asking me to do, you might want to provide a little more details,” she grinned, eyebrows raised. “Because I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“You’ll know, eventually, what to do.” He licked his lips. Mindless gestures, which he did only because she still took note of them. “We all have our memorial.”

Her mouth produced a series of annoyed sounds and she took a step closer to him, bending slightly to meet him eye-levelled.

“Your face looks like a book.” She paused for effect. “And now you talk like one.”

He pulled a playful face at her, ready to counter her like old times.

“And your book always looked like a face.”

Her smile faded slowly and she suddenly grew very faint, on the verge of running out.

He couldn’t tell whether or not she knew he was dying. Whether she had read it or been there. Whether pretence had filled her cracks to the point where she wore it like her blue coat, on the outside, when it was her guts she was baring. There was a huge sign hung in the middle of her face. No spoilers.

She was probably wondering if she would travel back enough in his life to meet a version of him wearing that same sign.

Her knees cracked when she lowered herself to him and put her hands in his lap.

“You were the one to send your current companion away.”

“I had no right to bury her here,” he simply answered. He swallowed back his anger at the thought of Clara, never punching his arm for letting her behind.

A bitter smile spread on her lips, infinitely patient. But still, bitter. Very River. Very patient.

“And as always, you had no right to think about yourself in this matter.” Her head swayed imperceptibly, definitive. “So you buried yourself here instead.”

“I won’t ask you to stay. I  _chose_  to be here.” He had her hands wrapped in his, and there were small, and warm, and young. And that warmth felt like the best argument for sparing Clara this fate of longing. River was a creature of long goodbyes, born to Amy and Rory out of patience, brought back to them by patience, who did not have the patience to stay and not die before they met her.

This was the time River would not wait. When Clara would have until he had buried her.

He beheld her face with apprehension.

“Just hang on a little longer, will you? Wait till I fall asleep.”

“And after that even,” she declared, jumping to her feet and fluffing her hair. His hands were left empty, ruined tools, in his lap. “I think I can pinch some days from your self.”

He looked up, joyously stunned. His hands unconsciously unfurled before him, apprehensive.

“Younger me will be much grateful in his old age.”

“Unfortunately not at the moment,” she conceded, with a tale-tell blandness. “You’re getting younger each time.”

 _More forgetful._ He understood. Of course.

Back to front, and even when he stopped for hundreds of year.

“I could return the compliment,” he admitted and they briefly exchanged a glance of defeat before her features contracted painfully.

“Does this mean the end of our journeys?”

His answer waited on the tip of his tongue. It tasted like spoilers. The assurance that, with River, nothing really ended.

“Not necessarily.” He shot her an assured smirk. “Halfway out of the dark.”

“Nearly,” she breathed. She could not foresee nothing would really end for her. Not because he had saved her. But because she had chosen at her end it would not be over for him. And he was doing the same for her. “In, out. I never know where or when we are. Time and Space are complicated.”

He interlaced his fingers on his belly, sitting more comfortably.

“No,” he decided. “This is much simpler than what I expected, getting old. I do not have infinity to look forward to. But in loops, there is infinity. That’s why I surrounded myself with the drawings. To create a circle. It is finite. _This_  is the place where I stayed.”

She paced round the room, taking notes of the drawings added since her last visit, rubbing her stomach. Her head turned back to him, lively thing, not to be stuck here.

“Still not interested in a lift out?”

He chuckled.

“Beware River Song, with the years passing, I have come to mistake you with some personal Trickster, sent by Tasha to prove my determination. I may doubt your reality.”

She strode to him and dropped a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think so. I’m very hard to ignore.” Her hands grabbed his knees and she watched over his face, bent above him. “You know I won’t leave like that.”

“Neither do I,“ he countered. “This is why I stay here.”

“And this is why I always come back.” She stood up, her mane falling in her face, glorious, young sight. She could be his companion. She was River and he would always despise her a little for that.

She ran to her clothes and began rummaging through her things. A small package and a box appeared out of what must have been a bigger on the inside bag and she let out a satisfied cry.

Suddenly, a fluffy rainbow blanket filled the space before his eyes and he heard her chirp.

“Dinner at dawn? I nicked Mum and Dad’s cover for this.” The blanket became a bundle under her arm and she walked to him, a packet in one hand. He rolled his eyes. When she was on visit in Christmas, she never left him alone long enough for Barnable to pop in unexpected and suspect shenanigans. “Do you want your cane to go up?”

“I’ll just lean on you if that’s alright.” She stepped close and and let him grab her arm.

He missed being near to someone. He missed the hugs and the kisses. Though a grandfather figure to all the children, he was respected amongst the adults above all. He craved for Clara. He had held her close, so close, ages ago. River took in the changes, shifted her character to meet his expectations, to fool his needs. None of them were fools. He was just an old man without a box, and not quite sure if he needed a wife anymore. He just needed a Clara, or an Amy, someone out of this world, to remind him while he was staying here, in his dream-like world. Because leaving could destroy it and these people weren't dreams.

“You can do that all night, lean on me,” she beamed. There was patience in her gaze. Again. But hope most of all. “Sleep with me tonight? Under the stars. I brought a portable heater, with shield.”

They stood up together, interlocked, toddling to the stairs together. Sometimes giggling at each other’s waddle. He was keeping the packet from sliding constantly from her arm and she was keeping him from slipping on the floor.

The first step reached, River looked over her shoulders at the drawings, sobered. His life was before his eyes, and she was here. And everything was there. In plain, naive, new colours. Creating loops for children to continue.

He wished the scar tissue of his travels was more like his walls.

“All these memories,” she asked, preparing for the climb. Or perhaps distracting him from the pain in his back. “Don’t you worry it will leave some traces? Generations of children grown on your memories? Fed by the adventures and lives of the Doctor?”

“You say this as if it is a bad thing,” he exclaimed. “Amy would disagree. And you absolutely did not spend your life marking the Universe with your little notes, driving insane your students.”

She felt incredibly strong under him. Each step up as if she helped him a little more and he nudged her in the rib, so that she would let him walk more freely. She obliged and his feet were surprised to find the ground again.

She had carried him off the ground.

“I live for the days when my colleagues are losing their mind over the grocery list I left in the Taj Mahal for our sixty ninth anniversary.”

The changing light oozing from the crack was scurrying away as they were climbing up, and up. To the stars and their wild picnic on the tower.

”They should,” he laughed breathily. “I nearly lost my mind reading it.”

And they both disappeared in the darkness between the stairs, their voices lost to moments they would display on no walls.

On the table, the little character with her boots and bonnet half-finished was standing next to a bottle of bright red paint, waiting.

 


End file.
